


Celebrity

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-04
Updated: 2005-07-04
Packaged: 2018-12-27 12:17:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12080910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Some things are made to be discovered. The prequel to Gossip.





	Celebrity

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Because of formatting issues, I'll be posting the first chapter at BJFic but not the rest of them. You can read the entire story at my [livejournal](http://www.livejournal.com/users/yoursweater), including the sequel, 'Gossip'. Feel free to leave feedback here, or on the posts at my LJ.

* * *

**New York - September 19th, 2004**  
"It's just an acoustic set. Five songs, max." She explains, handing me a bright yellow arena pass that reads STAGE PERFORMER in a wickedly intense shade of red. I flip it over and look at the radio's logo on the back â€“ typical insignia, if I kept all the shit I've no doubt accumulated over the years I'd bet my bank account I'd have a set of objects that are almost identical in every way. A passerby catches Jennifer's attention and she turns away from me for a moment, smiling and extending her hand to them. I roll my eyes and slowly clip the pass to the belt loop of my pants, only half listening to the mindless chattering she's taking part in with the other woman. Almost ten years in the entertainment industry really makes you bitter, go figure.

...

"Alright, you little cunts - which one of you fucks cut my mic out three different times?" I yell, approaching the line of my so-called sound technicians. They're all wearing black shirts with laminates that read CREW hung around their necks, leaning against a dirty white brick wall backstage. And they're all fucking smirking like they just helped Houdini escape. I want to take the cord from my amp and wrap it around their fat necks just for the fact they fucked me over, not even that they also managed to make me look like an asshole in front of a stadium full of people. And not the good kind of asshole.

Max - ever the faithful guitar tech - approaches me even though I might be spitting and foaming from the mouth, gently holding my guitar as I slide the strap over my head and hand the other half of my insides over. I scowl over his shoulder and stare down the tech, I don't even know his fucking name, but he's the one smiling more broadly then the rest and silently gloating the most. Max disappears to molest my guitar, and after staring down the leading tech (and what a fucking embarrassing title that is to claim â€“ head techie), I turn around and immediately head back to my dressing room.

"Jennifer! Fucks sake, Jennifer!" I roar, shoving the door to my dressing room open. It pops away from the doorframe and slams against the wall behind it, the hinges squeaking as I stomp into the room. Jennifer's sitting on the edge of one of the only pieces of furniture in the room â€“ a beige leather couch â€“ with a laptop on the coffee table in front of her. Her lined-with-kohl eyes widen two sizes as I barge in.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" She asks, following me with her eyes as I enter the room and slam the door closed behind me. I raise my eyebrows and smile in a sarcastic gesture to her, waving my arms out to the sides. Brian has officially just entered full Queen-Out mode.

"What the fuck is wrong with me?" I ask, voice a little softer then my usual yell. "What is wrong with me is that those assholes you hired to play dress-up as sound techs cut my fucking mic off three times â€“ three times! â€“ during one song." Along with my blood pressure, my voice starts to raise again. "So I suggest that you do me a favor and go out there before I do. You have my full permission to fire or castrate them in no particular order."

Jennifer has seen several years worth of my Queen-Outs, and therefore interprets my screaming for a calm, â€˜please use your talent and skills to go out there and quietly speak with my sound technicians to see what they may or may not have accidentally done wrong.'

Instead of saying that though, she tells me, "I'll talk to them." 

"Because that's what I fucking wanted you to do when I said firing and castration should be apart of the occasion." I snap, throwing myself into the lone chair opposite the couch. All I can see is the top half of her head over the monitor of her laptop.

"They're the best in the business, Brian. They wouldn't cut your mic out just for fun."

I roll my eyes and make a big show of throwing my feet up onto the table. They land on one of her binders, which is open to today's schedule. I hear the page tear from the metal rings it's attached to.

"You want to know why they became sound techs?" I ask, tipping my head back a little for dramatics. All the good actors do it in the movies. Jennifer cocks her head as though I'm asking her a legitimate question, like â€˜Guess what I had for breakfast!'. "Because they can't fucking sing! They're jealous little shits, whenever I get a big venue like this, something â€˜accidentally' happens and they end up blaming it on fucking, aerodynamics or some shit that doesn't even make sense. So you fucking go out there and fire them before I fire you."

Jennifer rolls her eyes, nods, and goes back to typing.

"Just don't forget that you've got an interview after the festival."

...

Onstage some band-of-the-moment is jumping around, all wailing voices and broken guitars as I watch from the side. I fucking hate radio events. They're all hurry up and wait for nothing at all â€“ a fifteen minute set that comes in the middle of an eight hour engagement â€“ how completely inappropriate. The promoters are always giant assholes and you always have a pretty good idea about how they spend their money: sex, drugs, and God (if I believed in you) fucking save me for saying this, rock and roll.

Not only is the entire event trite and unimaginative, all the bands are for shit. I mean, fuck. The one that's playing right now is obviously manufactured, some new pop-punk band with a nasal honk for a front man. Gossip is gossip, but I heard through my drummer that the lead singer got three rings put through his bottom lip just because the label â€˜suggested' it, you know. Image. Who cares about the music if you're pretty? That's the fucking story of my life. Look like this, pose like that. Don't let them think you're gay, you won't sell records. I'd be lying if I even hinted at being uncomfortable with the circumstances, though. If I regretted it. My bank statements proved to me five years ago that all the hair spray and concealor is worth piling on even if it only sells one record.

Except lets stop joking with ourselves here â€“ in my case, the symbolic one record is actually millions.

I uncross my arms and lean against an amp instead, watching the guitarist of this baby band performing onstage. He's got a decent amount of charisma I guess â€“ considering the rest of the band are zombies, all going through choreographed moves even though they're not dancing.

"What is this supposed to be, the quote-unquote new Backstreet Boys?"

I half turn around when I hear the squeaky voice of a female. I try to look like I'm uninterested but truth be told I am, just because she may possess the single most annoying voice I've heard in my entire life, and I'd like to know what the fuck is even able to produce it without slitting their own wrists. Teenage angst in all it's glory. When I finally match the voice to a face, I see a twig-like girl, her clothes all black and tight and fucking trendy. Her lips are painted bright red, whore-glossed and shiny as she grins at whatever's happening behind me on stage. She's standing in the middle of a group of kids that I'm assuming are all her age, and they're that typical group of we're-so-fucking-above-this-but-we're-going-to-stand-here-anyway assholes. Kind of like me, except they're in carbon copy form. I look back to the stage.

"Yet another boy band, only this time they're wearing black eyeliner." One of the guys says, laughing. I have to strain over the music to hear their voices. "How appropriate."

I take one more over-the-shoulder glance, trying to find some kind of event identification on them so I can figure out what the fuck it is that they're doing here. My eyes slide between them all, and I see that each of them has a pass that reads VIP on the front in big, bold orange letters. How wonderful. Not only are they a pack of teenagers that have taken to gossiping right beside me, they're also spoiled little brats with VIP passes in their possession. My mother's sister's cousin's daughter's friend _knows somebody._ They all pretty much look like clones of each other too â€“ black hair, pale faces, muted clothing - and I always thought that was hilarious, groups of teenagers always take to looking like each other and yet they claim they're independent. Instead of dressing in clothes their parents purchase, they steal their money and dress how their friends find accepting.

And not only that, these kids are just of the general fucking annoying variety.

While I'm in the middle of critiquing the bright green vest one guy is wearing over an orange shirt another kid joins the group, his hello a complaint about the traffic and his how are you a sorry I'm late. He barely gets a second glance from me, all he is is a black beanie hat and a neutral colored jacket. I sigh and turn back to the stage, watching the band as they finish their set. The one good thing about radio shows: short sets for shitty bands. I should've played longer. Fuck, maybe I would've if my mic hadn't copiously squeaked and dropped it's volume every twenty five seconds.

"Where the hell have you been?" A voice, no doubt belonging to Jennifer, asks from behind me. I glance over my shoulder to confirm her presence, and I notice that the group of kids goes silent as they watch the exchange between the two of us. They probably just realized that they've been standing beside Brian fucking Kinney the entire time. I straighten myself up from leaning against the amp and turn around, biting back a smirk when I see the completely panicked expression on Jennifer's face. "Your interview is in fifteen minutes for fucks sake, and you decide to disappear on me?"

"I didn't disappear you theatrical fuck." I groan, voice loud over the music as I roll my eyes at her. "I've been standing here all night watching these shit ass bands." I have to yell the last few words over the volume of the band onstage, which has been rising since their last song finished and they started doing their typical bang-on-anything-and-smash-everything-finale. And of course, just like in all the comedy classics, the music ends just before I get to â€˜shit ass'. Jennifer's standing there in front of me with a hand over her pink face, and I imagine the group of kids beside me are laughing, or at least trying not to. I snort and send a mocking smile at the band as they run past me, all sweaty and shooting me looks from under their eyelashes. Kids. 

"Christ, Brian." Jennifer sighs, running her hand up over her forehead. It goes back far enough to knot in her hair as she turns around slightly, watching the backs of the retreating band. I grin and lean back against the amp, propping both my elbows on the top as she turns back to me, her cheeks rosy. "Interview, Brian. Please?"

I give her a maybe-I-will-maybe-I-won't expression before she just sighs and leaves, probably to go and assure the shitty pop-punk band that I was talking about the _other_ shitty pop-punk band that was performing at the exact same time they were. I watch her retreating back until she disappears down the hallway, and then I start poking around in my jacket, pretending I don't see the no smoking sign hanging over my head as I look for my cigarettes. The group of kids opposite me are now completely silent for the most part, with the exception of some tedious whispering. All I hear are pieces of fragmented sentences â€“ album, Kinney, sellout, fuck, ridiculous. I roll my eyes just as I find my pack of cigarettes in my back pocket. 

"Are you fucks going to stand there and whisper about me all night?" I ask loudly, not bothering to look up from where I'm pulling a smoke out of the carton. Their whispering immediately ceases, though. "Yes I am an genuine asshole in real life. How surprising." I mutter, pulling my lighter from my jacket pocket. At least I didn't have to put up a big search for that.

"Never said I was surprised." One of them says, and I snort without looking up from where I'm lighting my cigarette. I take a quick drag.

"You look older then I expected!" The girl with the nails-on-a-chalkboard-voice says, and I try really hard not to just cross the room and throttle her barehanded. Instead, I take another nice composed drag of my cigarette, exhale, and then look up at her with my fucking trademark smile. "And you're taller, too."

"Well aren't you little Miss Insightful." I state, a bored drawl to my voice as I tuck my cigarettes and lighter back into my pockets. I glance up at her and she sends me my other trademark expression, the this-is-not-a-real-smile-you-asshole smile. I roll my eyes and look at the group of them, all clumped together in their â€˜one of a kind' ripped jeans and faded corduroys. "I'd introduce myself, but I'm sure you all already know me."

"We know you," The one who comes in late says, and he looks almost as cocky as I'm sure I do. "Actually, I'm pretty sure I read an article about you last month that said your current tour is sponsored by Pepsi."

I snort a laugh and take a drag of my cigarette.

"Kid, I know I'm a sellout." I grin, exhaling smoke through my nose as I shrug my shoulders. "I'm worth fifty fucking million dollars. You don't get that playing on street corners." I lean back against the amp and send him a smug look when I see his arrogant grin wavering a bit. It's never as much fun to make fun of said sellout when sellout acknowledges his status. I take another drag of smoke and wave my hand at them, limp wrested as I motion for them to leave me alone. "So why don't you go back to listening to your shitty bands and watching your no-plot-pretty-angle indie movies." 

He rolls his eyes at me and then follows his group of already leaving friends towards the exit.

...

"Fuck." I grumble, yanking the performer pass from my pants before I hand it over to Jennifer. She tucks it into one of the pages of her binder and continues scribbling notes, smiling at people as we pass them by. "Am I ever glad that's over. How am I getting back to my hotel?"

"In a car." She smirks, her attention turning from her binder to the group of girls stumbling past us towards the backstage entrance. I'm sure they're professionals working in the blow and hand job professions. Jennifer shakes her head and turns back to face me as we continue walking. "Your driver will come and get you. Don't worry about it, I'm handling it all."

"Because you're a professional, right?" I snicker, almost holding the exit door open for her before I realize that hey, it's Jennifer. She'd probably go all feminist on my ass and put up some big stupid fight about what kind of hidden intentions are behind me holding it open for her, because clearly she can do it herself. Obviously gay men have hidden intentions towards straight women all the time. Except just kidding, Jennifer would punch me in the face before putting up some lame ass argument like that. "Holy fuck it's cold out here."

"You're wearing five layers." She states, not even looking up from the paper she's reading. I give her side a push and then move behind her, following her down the narrow sidewalk lining the parking lot of the stadium. As we walk I reach for my cigarettes and get another one out, because I know that'll at least warm my insides up. Without even looking over her shoulder at me Jennifer says, "Your voice is going to wear out before the end of the tour if you keep that shit up, Brian."

I roll my eyes.

"Your voice is going to wear out before the end of the tour if you keep that shit up, Brian." I mimic, raising my voice to way above the pitch of hers. I put the still unlit cigarette in my mouth and pat my jacket to figure out what pocket I put my lighter in. I could definitely go for a joint right now but alas, I don't have any of those on me. Run of the mill, every day lung cancer inducing nicotine will just have to do for now. Unless â€“ "Jenn, you wouldn't happen to have a nice fatty in that binder of yours, would you?"

"Not a chance." She calls over her shoulder, waving to someone in a car as they drive by. Almost as an afterthought she adds, "And for the record, if I did I definitely wouldn't share with you."

I scowl and increase my pace, running the few steps between us so I can catch up to her and point my finger in her face. 

"Just remember who's money it is that you pay for your shit with."

She snorts, smiling at me as she rephrases, "Metaphorical shit."

"Right." I nod, confirming. "But metaphorically, you'd have to share with me. Its like an unwritten rule, share your marijuana with your employer."

Jennifer laughs and glances over at me, "Are we really going to continue with this conversation, Brian?"

I smirk and kick my leg out, my foot hitting right in the back of her ankle. It makes her trip and gets me an immediate elbow in the rib. I wonder if behind all the professionalism she's more immature then I am.

"So where's my fucking ride, Miss Trust Me To Do Everything?" I ask, putting on this big show of crossing my arms over my chest and exhaling as we stop at the place where my car is supposed to be waiting. My breath turns into a white cloud in the cold night air. Jennifer frowns and looks up and down the parking lot before turning to me, and I bring my cigarette up to my lips to take another drag.

"I'll give them a call." She says, shoving her binder into my arms as she pulls her cell out of her purse. I sigh and do a dramatic roll of my eyes, shifting all her shit to hold under one arm as I look around the parking lot. It's pretty empty, which makes sense considering it's the only private lot here and most of the performers have left already. It's kind of a weird night, all the lights around the stadium are making the air look red and foggy. Like a bad dream.

I shift a little from foot to foot, attempting to keep my blood moving so I don't completely freeze, as I smoke the rest of my cigarette and Jennifer talks on her cell. Her voice is usually calm and lowered, but I can see tonight is the exception. She's almost growling. After a few minutes of semi-courteous arguing with whoever's on the other end of the phone â€“ courteous arguing, what an oxy moron - she throws her cell back into her purse and then snatches the binder back from my grasp. 

"Wait here, I'm going to go inside and see what the fuck is going on." She tells me, running a hand through her hair. I shrug and nod, and then she's leaving me there standing by myself in a parking lot. I frown and toss my cigarette butt onto the wet pavement below me, vaguely wondering if there's a chance in hell that the one time I'm standing around in a deserted area without a bodyguard might also be the one time I get shot or attacked or something.

I'm weighing the pros and cons of getting shot in the chest as opposed to the stomach â€“ lungs verses heart, that kind of thing â€“ when I hear someone on the sidewalk. Their shoes - probably sneakers, sounds like rubber soles - are crunching and squeaking against the wet pavement as they walk in my direction. I look up to see if it's a admirer that I'm going to have to put up with until Jennifer gets back, but I get what I'd probably call an anti-aficionado. I may be in the entertainment business but I still know what big words mean.

"Uh." He says, raising one hand to scratch behind his left ear. "I saw you smoking inside. Think I could get one off of you?"

I snort, looking haha-you're-a-sellout-lets-make-jokes kid over. His little group of friends have disappeared, probably still inside trying to con their way into some wispy and lame â€˜my girlfriend dumped me and I'm going to cut my wrists' band member's pants. Without his so-called gang behind him he looks different. Smaller.

"Fuck you." I smirk, taking in the rip in his faded corduroys - I was right earlier - and surprisingly clean hair. "Why don't you go get one off your friends?"

He shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he looks me over the way I'm doing to him.

"They're uh. They're straight edge?" He says finally, asking me like it's a question and not a fact. Like I'd know the answer. I snort, I can't help it, and start laughing. Because fuck, does that ever explain everything.

"Well, maybe you should find a better crowd to bum off of." I tell him, my voice dull. He raises his eyebrows and shrugs, his gaze flickering between both of my eyes. I hold it steady, not looking away from his stare. He can break first. I reach into my pocket for my cigarettes and he finally looks away, pulling one hand out of a pocket so he can run it through his hair. His eyes are searching around the parking lot and truth be told, he looks like he's almost bordering on nervous. I raise one eyebrow and wait until he glances back over at me before flicking the cigarette at him. He catches it just before it falls to the wet floor, and I get a flash of chipped black finger nails. How scene.

He seems oblivious to my discovery as he puts the cigarette between his teeth and asks, "You got a light, too?"

Not bothering to answer, I grab my lighter from my pocket and flick the trigger a couple of times as I lean over, holding it out for him. The wind blows out the flame the first time so he brings his hands up as I flick the trigger again, blocking the wind from it as he puffs his cheeks and inhales to get the paper burning. The smoke comes out his mouth and nose at the same time as he pulls away, a smile tugging up one corner of his lips as he watches me.

"Thanks."

I shrug and slide another cigarette for myself out of the packet, lighting it up quickly and taking a satisfying drag before I bother putting the carton and lighter away. The kid's still watching me - I can feel his eyes trained to my hands as I do the buttons on my jacket up. I glance in his direction and catch him in an obvious mid-stare, but he doesn't bother looking away or pretending that I didn't notice him. He just holds my gaze level and keeps that grin on his face as he takes another drag, subtlety raising his eyebrows at me like he's answering a silent question that I never asked.

"So." He says after a beat of silence. "What are you just standing there for, anyways?"

I huff and cross my arms over my chest.

"What do you think? I'm waiting for my fucking incompetent driver to get here."

He smirks at me, studying the burning ash on the end of his cigarette before he asks, "Where's your assistant?"

I roll my eyes and look to the far end of the parking lot, eyes wandering over exit signs and parking space numbers.

"What, you want to hit on her or something?" I ask, answering his question with another question as I look back at him. He smirks and shakes his head, immediate silent but deftly understood words hanging between us as his gaze drifts to the side. He watches the crew of one of the bands that performed tonight loading up equipment on the other side of the parking lot, smoking another quarter of his cigarette before he bothers speaking again. His first words rush out through a cloud of smoke.

"About before." He starts, stops, and then shrugs his shoulders. "I thought you were just..."

"A sellout." I snort, finishing his broken sentence for him. He looks mildly uncomfortable, shifts from one foot to the other as he takes another shaky drag of his smoke. I smirk and look away from him and towards the door that Jennifer disappeared into. "Don't worry about it, kid."

"Justin." He breathes, exhaling a lungful of smoke as he does so.

This time I'm the one that shrugs, tossing my only half-smoked cigarette into the gutter. It looks like there are pieces of broken mirror in the cement because of the way the lights and moon reflect off the water in it.

"Whatever." 

He doesn't try and add anything else, instead he steps a little closer to where I'm standing and presses his elbow against my side. The touch is only there for a second, but I still raise my eyebrows and look down at him. He's got to be a foot shorter then me, from this angle and through his mop of hair all I can see is his nose. It's red from the cold, and he's concentrating on something in front of him, not looking up at me.

"You're different then I expected you to be." He admits, cutting himself off abruptly to take another drag of smoke. He looks up at me, smoke trapped in his lungs and eyebrows slightly knotted together like he's thinking about something. "So, sorry." He exhales. "About before. I was a shit."

I don't bother to reply to his apology, because I think apologies are for people who regret things. And I really don't think that he regrets saying that. So I stay silent as he throws his cigarette butt to the ground, and it lands a couple feet away from where mine is saturated with rain water in a puddle. He pushes the toe of his boot over it, being all environmentally friendly and shit to make sure he doesn't light anything on fire.

We stand in silence after that, and my mind jumps a lot from subject to subject. I keep my eyes trained on the cars coming and going, but if you asked me I wouldn't be able to name any of the paint job colors that have passed me by. He isn't saying anything either, and I glance down just to see if he's actually still even here at all. He's standing beside me, concentrating on chewing his thumbnail between his front teeth.

"That's a disgusting habit, you know." I state, and my voice comes out loud in the cold air. His finger stops moving between his teeth and his eyes roll up, looking at my face without moving his head. He raises his eyebrows at my statement and then one corner of his mouth turns up into a grin, hand dropping back down to his hip.

"So kind of like that." He motions to the pocket where I tucked my pack of cigarettes away. "Right?"

I snort and look him over again. Look at the blond hair which would need a cut if his profession wasn't music elitist, the brown jacket that looks like if you sent it to a dry cleaner it would fall apart, and the faded blue scarf wrapped around his neck.

"Yeah." I smirk, my eyes locked with his. "Kind of like that."


End file.
